Fatima listened as he explained that he had received information describing the fate of Reynolds’ mercenary unit and that nothing had been heard of the Englishman. He had no idea if he was still alive.
The news had come to him from Jamaal, the owner of the small sloop that had taken the men over to Malta. ‘We are still hoping David is okay and has maybe been captured by military forces.’
He looked around for Fatima’s daughter. ‘Where is Ayesha?’
Fatima gestured to the area behind the house. He rose to look out of the window, seeing the girl playing at the far end of the yard. She had a hula-hoop, and was twisting it around her body as she sang a song that her father had taught her, as an infant. Kasur sighed. He remembered what David had asked of him, and now it seemed like that moment, a moment and a commitment that he thought that he would never have to honour, had been placed upon him. She was too young to fully understand, right now. That would be put aside for later years.
The Moroccan had decided to first tell her mother, although the relationship with her English husband had been over now for six years,
Reynolds had never given up on seeing his daughter and because of this, Fatima had allowed him access to her. There were times when visits would end in blazing rows and even fights, just like when they were married, but both parents had always been there for their daughter, looking out for her interests. Reynolds had also seen to it that Ayesha was placed in a good school, with French teachers.
Fatima sat down and looked out at her daughter, as she happily played, oblivious to this tragic news about the man who meant so much to her.
Kasur noticed a tear form and trickle down the side of her mother’s face. Did she, underneath this resentful façade, still love David Reynolds?
He waited silently for her to compose herself again, and as she wiped her face with her veil, she gazed into his eyes. Fatima needed to know more, but also had to protect her child from the truth. ‘She is not to know about this. Not yet, there will be a time to tell her, but it is not right now. David said to her, he was just going to be away on another contract, and it would be sometime before he could see her again. She is used to him leaving, and then coming back. I want her to think this as just one of those times.’
Kasur agreed. He then explained what Reynolds had arranged with him. How, in the event that Reynolds did not return, he was to be Ayesha’s secret guardian.
Fatima was pleased. Of all the people that her ex-husband had associated with, this man had been someone she had approved of and because of his native origins, someone she could trust. He wasn’t some womanising Frenchman, or another English soldier type. He was kind and well-mannered. A gentleman. She told him of her approval and accepted this proposal.
Kasur also had a family of his own, in Marrakech, a wife and twin boys whom he adored. Adding a little girl to care for, would be something he would cherish. He had stopped himself mentioning the substantial amount of money in the specially-arranged bank account. Seeing the sad face in front of him, he had been tempted him to reveal that Ayesha would be comfortably supported, financially, but he knew this was something his friend had wished him not to divulge.
He got up to leave, promising he would return soon.
Fatima remained seated, as the former bodyguard of the royal palace left her to her thoughts. He paused, to look out at Ayesha again. Kasur desperately wanted to talk with her, just to assure her his was a friendly face she could trust. But this was also for another time.
As he climbed back into his car, in his heart he hoped that his dear friend was still alive.
Chapter 23
Walking along the dusty Nicosia access road, David Reynolds carefully scanned the area around him. Since his escape, there had been many instances when he had almost run into other patrols, both Greek and Turkish. It was if both armies were seeking each other out and ideally, ignoring the agreed ceasefire, would engage each other at the earliest opportunity. To them, there could be only one occupying force.
Overhead, Reynolds had seen the contrails of fighter jets and had had to hide from approaching helicopters. In the distance he could hear sporadic gunfire, but the source was anyone’s guess.
The hornets’ nest he had kicked over with his team had stirred the Greek forces into action. The earlier encounters with the patrols proved they were looking for him, and from the sound of things, he decided, they were occupied at the moment. More skirmishes with Turkish paratroopers had broken out all over the frontier.
Reynolds continued along the long straight road, passing bullet-ridden stone walls, some with splats of blood surrounding them. Little imagination was needed to know what had happened.
Then, through the early evening haze on the horizon, he could see that he was approaching a small enclave. As he drew nearer to the white houses, he searched around for signs of life. There was no one to be found. The whole place seemed deserted.
He spied a small bungalow. Its shutters were half open and the door knocked in the breeze coming off the mountains. At least I could probably stock up on some supplies, he thought to himself.
He walked slowly up towards the front door and, looking into the window, checked the inside. Just as he thought, the house had been abandoned. Most likely it was due to some sort of raid, a patrol sent in to do some house-clearing. He had read about in the newspapers.
He walked through into a yard, that led through to the back of the house, and peered through the window into the kitchen.
Still no signs of life. He tried the door and pulled the handle and to his surprise it was not locked. He opened it cautiously and entered.
It was as he suspected, resembling a scene from inside the Mary Celeste. He ambled into the deserted kitchen and, beginning to feel weak, was determined to find something that at the very least resembled food.
If he didn’t have something other than peanuts inside him soon, he could flake out at any minute; the mixture of the extra assertion of adrenalin, plus the drive to get as far away from the battlefield as possible was all it had taken to drain the energy from him.
On the sideboard was a hard-baked loaf of brown bread and behind it, a fruit bowl full of dates, oranges and a couple of pomegranates. Like a wild animal, he dropped his kit and scrambled over to them, scooping the bread up and biting off chunks at its end. Then, still holding the loaf with one hand, he picked a date from the bowl and popped it into his mouth, spitting out the stone onto the floor.
Minutes passed and, having stuffed himself quickly, he sat down on a chair and took out his canteen of water. After a few gulps, he set it down on the table and stared at the stone-tiled floor.
It was at this point that he started to think about his men, and the ways that, before his own eyes, they had all been cut down by the opposing forces. It was too much of a coincidence that these Greek soldiers had been in the area and were alerted by the explosion of the mine. His thoughts then turned to the mine itself. He had been assured by Everard that this road would be clear. They had followed the route outlined on the map. Thinking deeply about this, he was led to just one conclusion — they had been set up from the start. Someone had informed these bastards they were coming. Who could it have been and more to the point, why?
The soldiers who engaged them had been Greek regulars, not paramilitary fighters. These burning questions remained with him as he felt his stomach begin to fill. The drowsiness soon followed and, after removing his boots, he laid his head down on the table and drifted off into an exhausted, but harrowing, sleep.